


Et non moriatur

by Luzifersboyfriend



Series: It could have been so easy [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Character Death, M/M, Not Thor: Ragnarok (2017) Compliant, Not Thor: The Dark World Compliant, Possible Character Death, Pseudo-Incest, Smut, Thor Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 13:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12985056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzifersboyfriend/pseuds/Luzifersboyfriend
Summary: As the gods of old die out and new ones rise to take the earth, two starstruck lovers are again played against each other in a tragic dance. Fate really loves to tamper with people she does not like.





	Et non moriatur

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of this series, but can also be read as a oneshot. I changed the characters names and will also continue to change them, molding them to the time they are reborn in.  
> Lycaon is Loki.  
> Theocles is Thor.  
> Otherwise, enjoy!

When time flows and the gods of old die out, new gods take the earth and with them a new empire rises. With new empires come new Kings and new Servants, again two sides of the same conflict. And in the middle, to star struck lovers old as time, fate smiling down as she orchestrates yet another life for gods without a cause.

New time, new name, new life, same story.

 

>   
>  _"I have died everyday, waiting for you"_
> 
> _" Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years "_
> 
> _" I'll love you for a thousand more "_
> 
> _" And all along I believed, I would find you "_
> 
> _" Time has brought your heart to me, I have loved you for a thousand years "_
> 
> _" I'll love you for a thousand more "_

 

 His eyes follow his servant’s broad form as he leaves the room, head bowed and shoulders pulled in tightly to make himself look smaller. He always does that, even though Lycaon never told him to do so. Not even his father, King Octavian, forces Theocles to hunch like that.

Theocles always was his very one brand of special. Reserved, polite and as inconspicuous as one can be when as big as him, but by Jupiter, his  _eyes._ They hold a fire, an ancient knowledge and they are a stormy blue so bright he is said to have been brought by Tempestas herself.

People try to avoid him as much as possible, so it might be rather unusual to have a mystery like that as the prince’s slave, but Lycaon had specifically asked for him to be his slave, otherwise he might’ve been killed. He cannot have those magnificent eyes turn cold and empty, he just can’t. Everything inside of him revolts at the thought of Theocles lifeless and unmoving.

Lycaon treats all of his slaves well, but he has taken a certain liking to the golden-haired servant, who does not seem to fit into his role at all. He never talks back to Lycaon or his father, but his eyes always spark with defiance and the muscles in his shoulders tense. Lycaon also noticed that whenever there is a storm outside the lightning seems to mirror itself in his eyes and his expression gains a sort of distant longing.

He doesn’t know where Theocles comes from, what his story is or even what he does when he isn’t occupied with the crown prince of the empire. Nevertheless he has the feeling he knows Theocles far longer than he can ever imagine to have lived. He craves to know him better, to know what that mouth would really speak, when it has the chance to do so. He is desperate to know how big that body really is and what those hands can do other than wash his hair and patch his clothes.

His father talks about him marrying the daughter of some wealthy nobleman, to strengthen the bonds of the Roman Empire, to bring about an alliance of peace. He is nothing but a relic, locked up in his chamber until he might be of use. The thought leaves a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. Soon he will be forced to marry some woman, dull as a farmer’s wife and furthest from his interests.

When he dreams at night, he dreams of strong sinewy arms and gentle hushed encouragement, of sharp blue eyes and soft golden hair. When he dreams at night, he dreams of his servant. But not like other people might do, not himself as the dominant power, he longs to give over the reins for just a second, to just let it slip out of control for one beat of his yearning, thrumming heart.

When he dreams at night, he dreams of his servant’s giant form looming over him in all his might, while he buries himself as far as possible in Lycaon’s heat, until Lycaon can forget his name, his title and the power he is meant to wield.

He always thought he was meant for the throne, he knows he has the potential to be an excellent king, but all he can think about lately is how exhausting it is to have the world know your name and expect something from you, without even knowing what it is you yearn for. Not caring for who rules the land, as long as they don’t make any mistakes. And if they do, kill them, it’s no big deal, right?

It’s nothing new when another king falls, another heir is appointed to the throne, another murder is committed, more blood flows.

And when he breaks under the pressure he takes care to do so in solitude. He does not notice the blonde servant standing at the door to his chambers, watching him with guarded eyes full of hope. He does not notice that those dreams, they may not even be dreams.

He does not notice that it had indeed been a reality long ago and that fate does not care for mending wounded souls.

He does not know that his aversion to ruling stems from the incessant need to have that blonde servant by his side, that it stems from the centuries spent side by side, ruling as one. That it stems from the hollow feeling in his chest, the millennia old ache, only one seems to soothe.

Wounded souls need mending, but fate is not so kind to people who betray her.

Fate loves to play with the strings of life, loves to pluck a melody on your heartstrings and call it a heartbeat, she loves to have you relive your worst fear over and over again until you break under her delicate fingers. This is what brings her most of joy, this is why she is fate and no one else dares to mess with her realm.

This is why Lycaon suffers, has suffered and will suffer for centuries to come. This is his legacy. Because his name might be that of a ferocious canine and his lover that of a man made for glory but in truth, all they seek is redemption in this endless cycle of hurt.

He does try to hide his radiating love for Theocles, he tries to deny himself those desires, he tries to forget those eyes. He tries to not look at him, plays his role as a cold ruler perfectly, but the weight begins to press down on his shoulders and he is not sure for how long he will be able to keep it up.

He should know fate does not like people betraying her. He should know she will punish him for his mistakes. He should try harder. He doesn’t. He’s nothing but a boy, bound to break under fate’s merciless hand.

And so he gives in, he caves, he lets himself be controlled by ancient desire and his love for the servant with the storm raging in his eyes. The worst part is he can see the loyalty and the unbridled adoration in those thunder blue eyes, he can see Theocles’ desire in every line of his body, in every taut muscle tensing under Lycaon’s painfully accidental touch.

When his master comes back from council meetings and his eyes are weary, his body tired, he lets Theocles touch him, work the tension from his muscles and help him relax.

And slowly Theocles notices a shift in their relationship or maybe it has always been that way and he just didn’t want to believe it. He starts to spend more evenings in his master’s chambers, filled with hushed conversation and cautious smiles. And those evenings grow longer, the hours fleeting under their hands until the morning sun rises at Apollo’s guiding touch and the first rays of light crawl through the windows. And that’ the first night Theocles spends with his master. Many more are destined to come.

They grow closer in the safe embrace of Nox’s loving arms, the moon watching over them. Lycaon learns where Theocles comes from and Theocles listens to him open up about his aversion to ruling. They can’t show their closeness outside the safety of Lycaon’s chambers, but they are okay with that.

Soon there’s a different tension in their late night talks, voices trembling on the line to breaking, eyes dilating and their hands shaking. But they have not yet caved, they are still fighting a battle they’re bound to lose. The desire to feel the other, to taste that mouth they’ve grown so accustomed to weakens their resolve day by day, chipping away piece by piece until they can barely stand to be in the same room without their hands starting to shake and their gazes becoming frantic.

Their bond threatens to break under the heavy tension, wearing thin enough to fray at the edges. Talking becomes hard, the former ease being replaced by heavy silences and meaningless words. They refuse to address what is happening with them and maybe that way they even manage to keep their friendship – is it really friendship when it’s older than they are and, by the gods, so much more than they claim it is? – hidden from the public eye and the watchful gaze of King Octavian.

But they can’t possibly think to outplay fate, can they?

One night, when the sun left the horizon long ago, they try to mend the broken ends of their bond. They try to make broken pieces stick together, not knowing that glue won’t hold things together when the pieces don’t fit. They try to talk and they try to keep the waver of desire out of their voices as not to shatter the fragile control that keeps them from devouring one another and sealing their fate once again.

It’s a foolish hope, their fate has been sealed long ago and she will inflict cruelty on lost gods once again.

When Theocles voice drops just a fraction, gravel stealing into it, Lycaon can’t help himself, it’s those eyes. Those eyes that bewitched him from the moment he saw them for the first time. And when his lips meet those of his servant’s, he knows what he’s risking. But as soon as he can feel that mouth move against his, breath stuttering under his hands, he forgets why he was so worried, what it had been that kept him from doing this.

When that mouth opens and warm, wet heat welcomes his tongue, he knows that he is lost.

He may be a prince, an heir to the empire and a person of pride, but there is nothing he craves more than having his servant – _a slave_ , for Jupiter’s sake – control him, decide his every move and usehim. If there is one thing he is certain of, it’s that he will drop to his knees, if only to see those eyes widen and the blue he loves so much be swallowed up by lust.

He never thought he would kneel for anyone, but when it’s him, there is nothing more natural than that, it comes as easily as breathing.

Theocles cannot describe what the prince tastes like, it tastes so familiar it makes his skin crawl, but at the same time so foreign and otherworldly he wants crawl inside and find out what Lycaon is made of. His hands are firm and strong as he grips his master’s face in them and they slot into place like they were moulded to fit there.

His head dips and his body moves on its own accord, wanting, needing, to feel the cool skin of his prince against him. And when Lycaon breaks the kiss and sucks a mark into his skin, right where his pulse is beating a rapid rhythm in his throat, he doesn’t realise their mistake, doesn’t realise there is no way he will be able to hide that.

And when Lycaon does it again, moving down his throat in bruises of purple and blue – never the blue of his eyes, it would never be that brilliant – he can feel Theocles’ breath hitch and a shiver rake through his strong body. Clarity is the farthest from his mind right then.

A craze having gripped him tight, holding him down and pushing him to mark the skin in front of him, to make up for ancient wounds, to trace invisible scars.

His attention is driven towards his father’s crest – the royal crest – burnt into his lover’s skin, he lavishes it, gently kissing the scarred flesh, all the while muttering apologies, frantic, desperate. As if he were fearing it would all crumble to dust around him, fearing Theocles would get up and leave him.

And when it does not feel enough anymore to kiss and touch in order to apologise for the countless injuries inflicted by the royal family, he slips from his lover’s grip to the ground, bowing his head in utter submission. It’s not a position he often finds himself in, but he’s seen enough people do it, to know how to kneel. It might be a bit clumsy and his hands are shaking too much to properly place them on his knees and sit still, but it’s the gesture that counts.

Weirdly enough, when Theocles sees his prince kneeling on the floor in front of him, it does not surprise him. On some level he always knew exactly what his master craves and who was he to deny him that?

He is nothing but a simple servant with something ancient sleeping in his bones.

Nothing but a simple servant.

He knows the gravity of his master’s actions, can practically taste it on the tip of his tongue, but when Lycaon’s slender fingers wrap around his thick thighs and he suddenly finds him nuzzled against his crotch, there is nothing he can do to stop him.

Lycaon is gentle at first, still muttering apologies while his knees grow tired and his hands tremble, but he does not move. When he frees Theocles of his tunic and laps at his erection, a big hand finds its way into his hair, gripping the black strands tightly. The sting makes him whine quietly in the back of his throat as he works to take him deeper.

 Theocles cannot hope to quiet himself when his prince is  _that good_ with is tongue. Whenever that tongue, the one he has heard flowing like water in council meetings, smoothing over rippled seas, dips into his slit, he is sure that he will go insane.

And when his prince takes him  _even deeper_  and the tip of his erection nudges the back of his throat, Theocles’ eyes roll back into his head and his powerful thighs tremble with shocks of pleasure. He longs to fill his master in every way he can, wants to fill him so completely that his prince can feel him in his bones, seeping into every corner of his mind and filling every cell in his body.

He knows he is going to come soon, when Lycaon grips his thighs to hold him in place and starts humming low in his throat. Every nerve in Theocles’ body sings with pleasure and he is sure of it, he knows this is going to be his downfall. He will not settle for anything else, now that he knows what his prince feels like.

“Ah! My  _prince…_ ” he pleads and Lycaon stops as if it had been a direct command given to a servant. “Yes?” he asks softly. “What do you want? What do you need, Theocles?” he asks and hearing his name being spoken in that tone, in a voice so utterly  _wrecked_  is even better than having his cock down that throat.

“I want to be inside you.” He answers and he has never felt more himself than then, finally being able to say things like ‘I want..’ and being able to make his prince stop with a word only.

He should know that power ruins even the best of people and he did definitely have an affinity for power. People had tried to bury it deep inside of him, tried to supress that ancient urge to rule and give and take, but they could not possibly bury it forever.

He doesn’t think his prince would agree to a plea like that, but the only thing he does, is reply “How do you want me?” Theocles isn’t sure how he is still thinking, because all of his blood by now must have collected in his aching erection. He was dripping with precum and so hard, it nearly hurt.

“I-I don’t care, just  _somehow_. Please…” His master comes to his feet, lying down on the bed and offering himself up to Theocles, eyes staring straight into his, flushed face glowing with arousal and his hands removing his own tunic before he spreads his legs and conjures a flask of oil out of seemingly nowhere.

“Wha-where..?” Theocles asks and Lycaon manages to smirk. “I have had this here since,  _ha,_ since you stayed for that first night.” He says, while working one finger into himself. Theocles tries to listen to him, he does but he is to transfixed on his master’s fingers working themselves into his body. He’s perfectly on display and his elegant fingers elicit tiny gasps and shivers from him.

“Are you – _aah_ – just going to stand there and watch me?” His prince asks, gasping for breath and still somehow managing to give him a smile. Theocles nearly stumbles over himself in his rush to come to his aid.

Lycaon removes his own fingers from his body, only to have them replaced by thicker fingers, he can feel their calloused tips rub over his inner walls and it’s all he can do to not moan out loud.

“Oh gods, _oh-_ “ he throws his head back, pressing into the soft mattress as his hands claw uselessly at Theocles’ broad chest. “Sshhh…” his slave murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You have to be quiet, my prince.”

“I, _haa,_ I know, I _know_ …” He turns his head to the side and buries it in his arm, muffling his gasps and whines.

Seeing his prince so utterly wrecked, flushing incredibly prettily and gasping wantonly is doing all kinds of things to Theocles, especially because it’s him that’s causing this. His master is falling apart because of _him_ , and if that’s not something to get his blood pumping, then nothing is.

He starts moving his fingers, scissoring and stretching, relishing in every gasp his master is trying to stifle. He nearly doesn’t catch the word his master utters, his usually so strong and commanding voice breathless and keening.

Theocles has to concentrate hard to not come then and there, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his life. He slips his fingers out and chuckles breathlessly at the way Lycaon’s sensitive hole twitches around air, greedy and hungry.

He crawls up onto the bed, carefully lining his achingly hard erection up with his master’s entrance, asks “Are you sure?” and, as soon as Lycaon has given an affirmative nod, slowly starts pushing into the heat before him.  
It’s overwhelming, the feeling of Lycaon’s body encasing him, gripping him tight as a vice, so hot and so _tight._

His prince is lost, a steady stream of “More please, by the gods, _more_ …” leaving his mouth and Theocles complies, pushing into him in one smooth thrust. The feeling is indescribable.

“Oh, by Jupiter, _Lycaon.”_

It just slips out, he did not mean to call his prince by his royal name. There are rulers who killed for less and he knows his master would never do that, he knows that but still, he had never before dared to usher his master’s name.  
Lycaon’s reaction throws Theocles off completely. He moans, he actually _moans_ at the name, deep and raspy and gasps “Again, _say it again!”_

_“Lycaon.”_

His lover’s hips buck into his violently, a shudder raking through the slim form. _"Again!”_ he moans. And Theocles complies, thrusting hard and deep.

The reaction it gets out of his master is astonishing, beautiful to watch and mesmerizes Theocles. His body reacts to the name like a flower does to sunlight, with strength and a desperation that makes Theocles wonder how often in his life Lycaon has heard his real name, not a title, not a fancy description, but just plain his name.

So when he thrusts into the waiting, open heat of his master over and over and over again, he dips his head down, right next to Lycaon’s ear and keeps repeating the name.

Again and again and again.

Until it’s only a jumble of letters and syllables, until his master arches of the bed and loses himself to the bliss of freedom. And when he hears that low keening whine rip out of his prince’s chest, Theocles comes too, burying himself deep in Lycaon.

When the sated buzz wears off and Theocles has pulled out, when they’ve cleaned themselves as best they can without going off to wash themselves, the gravity of their actions sinks in.

But they are only boys, they cannot yet fathom how cruel life can be. How cold fate is, staring blankly as your life crumbles around you and the shattered pieces sting like shards of glass.

So when the sun comes up, Apollo casting a protective hand above the two sleeping lovers and fate leaves them undisturbed, you could think it would be alright, that they will just be boys and live.

They do, for a while. They don’t get caught that first night, not even with the purple bruise adorning Theocles’ throat. A month goes by. A month made of golden memories, of sunshine and vineyards, of running barefoot across the beach and hot sticky kisses, tainted with the heavy flavour of wine and arousal. A month of freedom and happiness, a month of boyish joy, and ancient yearning.

But everything ends someday, earlier for some than for others.

They have gotten into a routine, Lycaon going to bed alone, Theocles sneaking in later and then they talk or fuck, lust and the ever-present looming threat of getting caught making their mouths clash hot and desperate and their hands cling with a force that leaves bruises.

But surely they would’ve known that fate never was that kind. That fate would show you what you could have, before ripping it away again.

And that is how the story unfolds.

They should have known.

They didn’t.

Another night, more kisses, more gasps, murmured words and more heat. With the one exception that it did not go as planned, they did not get to spend that one night together no more. At their most vulnerable, Theocles buried deep in his lover’s heat, a servant bursts in, “I’m terribly sorry, Your Royal Highness, I-“ the slave freezes. His eyes grow big and his face grows accusing.

“No- Aegidius, _don’t!”_

_Ten._

He can feel his heartbeat hammer against his ribcage, desperate and still racing from arousal. Somehow he knows it's over.

_Nine._

He feels numb when he pulls out of his lover's heat and stares into the angry face of the man that calls himself Theocles' king, his master, without knowing anything. 

_Eight._

His eyes stare blankly as his prince, his Lycaon, pleads his father to not act on his anger, to think rationally.

_Seven._

He goes willingly when guards shackle him and drag him out of the room. He numbly remembers the uncomfortable rubbing of his bonds, that has his wrists raw in a matter of seconds.

_Six._

He's dimly aware that his prince must've cried that night, his eyes red and watery. He himself did not sleep, his mind already shut off. Maybe it was shock. 

_Five._

His prince is there when Octavian announces his sentence. Death by wild animals. He is to die in the colosseum. Mauled by animals. 

_Four._

He watches as his prince tries not to break apart in front of his father. He catches those eyes and stares, trying to remember how they looked when his prince laughed and the skin around them crinkled, how they looked when the sun shone into them and made them glow in an array of green, how they looked when they were heavy-lidded and glassy with arousal. 

_Three._

His hands are numb. It's dark in the holding cell. He misses his prince's iridescent green eyes.

_Two._

When the gate opens and light floods his cell, he is blinded. He is thrust into the arena and before he can think he can hear a menacing growl rip through the air. He runs. He can feel the beast's breath on his neck. A lion. Flashbacks to other times blur his vision, flashbacks to sharp teeth and hungry green eyes. Fenrir. His first death.

_One._

And when he feels the lion pounce, he stops running. He straightens up to his full hight. And in that single moment you can see the divinity leak through his posture, you can see lightning crackle along his skin like an illusion. And when he fights for that single second, he truly is a match to gods.

_Zero._

And when he falls, and when the colosseum erupts in cheers and triumph, he is nothing but a boy. A heart breaks, a soul shatters, green eyes go blank. 

_A god died that day._

_Another one wished he had._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading this! I'd appreciate it if you'd leave constructive criticism or something. Thanks for reading!  
> -TJ


End file.
